


B A L A N C E

by Hyobe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 12:13:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyobe/pseuds/Hyobe
Summary: He's been waiting.





	B A L A N C E

**December 2006, Los Angeles, California**

Remorse. He’d never thought he’d ever feel it. Never imagined what it would be like, how harsh and cold and violent. As if he’d been slashed open in a matter of second and left there to rot on the floor. As if his heart had been shattered in billions of parts dispersing with the wind, some going North, some going South, as far as possible from the others.

He’s numb, alone, in this small cabin. There’s two shots of vodka sitting in front of him, a blunt he’s rolled hours ago and his phone, turned. There’s also this tarot deck he stole in Louisiana years ago, spread. He’s taken one card but he can’t quite remember what goes with it. Strength, he doesn’t believe he has it, doesn’t believe anything positive that goes with it could happen to him. Whatever it is it’s too late. He’s lost hope. Most of it anyway. He sees his phone ringing, he knows it’s Bobby. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t even acknowledges it, forgotten it all. His brain is on another track, he has other things to think of right now. All the things they could have done together, where they could have been, what they could have said, changed, meliorated. He sees a parade of ifs, of possibilities dancing before his eyes, blurry. He’s crying.

Without noticing it he reaches for the joint, lights it with a shaky hand and some trippy music in the background. It’ll help him forget it all. His smile, his hands, his eyes, his lips, his voice. He’ll forget it and with all that he’ll forget the pain. But before that he’ll remind himself. One last time.

**July 1997, New Orleans, Louisiana**

Everything is humid in Louisiana, especially during this time of the year. Dad dragged them here for some unsure werewolf hunt he said would be finished in a week or two but they’ve been here for a month already and their lead is still cold. So cold that John even switched targets, he’s now aiming for witches. They help as much as they can, which is minimum. And since it’s an holiday season they don’t have much to do besides watching TV or going to Lake Pontchartrain and enjoy the sun. Today’s too hot to do either of those thing. 40°c outside and 46°c under the sun. So they decided to stay in, air conditioner blowing fresh air at full capacity. Sam’s laying on his bed, reading a book he’s already read ten times while Dean is spread on the couch, listening to some rock song too loud for it to be healthy. John’s out, he decided to go interrogate some of the local voodoo shops or “known” witches. They thought it’d be useless but they said nothing, it would have vexed John more than it would have helped him. Plus, his constant frustration is just one more negative vibe they have to deal with.

Dean’s warm. He’s sweaty but comfortable. A glance to his watch indicates it’s lunch. He knows he should start cooking something but he doesn’t want to. Too lazy, splayed like that, one leg hanging from the sofa, the others somewhere up. And his favorite song from the Marilyn Manson album is playing. You don’t put “cake and sodomy” in a corner.

« - Sammy ya wanna eat ?»

Sam props himself up on his elbows, book pushed away. His hair sticks to his face because of how much he sweats. He’s so wet he’s sure that if anybody touched him they’d slip. He’s only wearing a shirt too long for him and boxers but he feels overwhelmed by the heat surrounding him.

« - Yeah, ‘just need somethin’ fresh. » He answers between two yawns. Dean’s watching him upside down, his head hanging from the edge of his couch. He pushed his headphone away from one ear. Sam gives him back an amused glance.

« - Check the fridge then. I ain’t cooking. » He takes his eyes off of Sam, turning his eyes back on the ceiling. Dean snakes a hand into his boxer to scratch his pubes lazily, biting back a yawn.

« - I cooked yesterday ! » Sam protests. Slumping back on the bed with an oomph sound   
« - I’ll cook tonight. »  
\- As if ! » He’s not fooled. Sam gets up, jogging to the couch just to slump back on Dean, sweat falling from him to his eldest like a waterfall.   
\- Ew dude. That’s just gross. » He tries to push Sam away but he’s acting as the tentacle monster that he’s always been, long limbs slipping around his to block him.   
\- Should have made me a sandwich Jerk. »

Dean said nothing, snaking one arm around Sam as he turned on the TV with his other hand. They stayed there for a while, just watching some dumb cartoons. In the end they both fell asleep on the couch and got yelled at by John when he came back. Sam didn’t care though. He was happy.

**December 2006, Los Angeles, California**

He downs one shot of vodka, coughs and looks up. Nothing. There’s nothing around him, not a sound except the music that he knows is about to stop, not a smell besides the weed, not a single feel except the tears wetting his face, not a single person to sooth the countless injuries he feels. Slowly, the realization hits him. He’s alone. He has no one. No parents, no siblings, no girlfriend, no friends. He has nothing. No house, no car, no money. He’s lost everything he ever had in the blink of an eye.

_Clink_.

He turns his head towards the door, not ready to defend himself, he doesn’t really want to. _Clink_. The door opens this time, he can feel the fresh air hitting the back of his head. It creaks and there’s footsteps that he knows, he recognize them. The small gaps between each steps that belongs to no one but Him.

« - Sammy I’m home. »

They’re both crying. None of them cares because they’re together. Reunited, one again. **Home**.

 


End file.
